


Are You There, Moriarty?

by my_3am_materials



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_3am_materials/pseuds/my_3am_materials
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock first met Dr Watson, he thought him the most vacuous person who ever walked the Earth.<br/>Then, something unusual happened...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Dr Watson

Left. Right. Repeat.

The man started walking down the street.

Left. Right. Repeat.

Or rather, limping.

Left. Right. Repeat.

In his hand he clutched a standard issued cane which could be very well used as a weapon in a time of need.

Left. Right. Repeat.

But none of the other pedestrians would think any of this. Not one regarded him as a threat with his short figure and s too big jumper. Mostly dangerous to himself.

Left. Right. Repeat.

Oh, little did they know.

Left. Right. Repeat.

Left. Right. Repeat.

**Left. Right. STOP.**

The limping man stood before some petit-ish cafe – Speedy’s. After small contemplation he decided to go inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Today at the Speedy’s wasn’t a busy one, regarded Mrs Hudson as she looked around the café. Four tables were occupied by the regulars who went here more for a good chat filled with gossips than for her homemade apple pie. Which was delicious, by the way, thank you very much.

But now, her attention caught a person sitting at the farthest table. The man had multiple newspapers laid out before him, barely giving enough space for a cup of tea placed in the middle. His cane was rested at the other side of the table but within the reach, in the case it would be needed.

The man had an expression on his face which most people would describe as ‘annoyed’. Her late husband would surely say “bloody annoyed”. To Mrs Hudson he looked sad and lost, a little bit reminding her of Sherlock, that poor genius boy.

In this situation, majority of people wouldn’t thought it wise to approach him, but then again, Mrs Hudson was never like the sheep in masses.

And so she, armed with a slice of her delicious pie, began approaching the table, catching man’s attention.

When she reached him, the man looked up and politely smiled at her. If it was little strained, she pretended not to notice.

“I thought you would like something to eat,” she said. “It’s on the house of course.”

“Thank you,” he answered. He looked at her again and saw her waiting expectantly. He silently sighed and not to want to be rude, he invited her to sit with him for a little while.

“Would you like to sit with me, Ma’am?” Perhaps you could help me.”

Mrs Hudson eagerly sat.

“And what’s the matter, dear?” she inquired.

“I am looking for a flat but they are either too outrageously expensive or too far away from the clinic.” Man lifted the cup to take a sip.

“So you are a doctor?”

Man stopped mid-movement, thought better and placed the cup back at the table.

“Well, yes,” he answered cautiously. The woman was supposed to help him, not ask questions, no matter how innocent they might be.

“And what hospital do you work at?”

“St Barts,” the man started looking uneasy. He just told a stranger where he was working. No matter how harmless the person might seem, he learned not to underestimate the others the hard way.”

Mrs Hudson was happily chatting away. She was struck by an idea, surely brilliant.

“If you’d like, my new tenant is looking for a flat share.” She paused for a moment. “Of course, he is quite a quirky man.”

Man relaxed. She was really just trying to be helpful. “I would love to see it.”

“I could give you a tour tomorrow. It is right the next door.”

“Thank you, Mrs …” man started.

“Hudson, Mrs Hudson. And you are, dear?"  
Man extended his arm. “Watson. John Watson.”


	2. Meet Mr Holmes

“Sherlock!” DI Greg Lestrade was furious. It was a long day without his consulting smart aleck and now this.

“What have I done?” asked Sherlock as innocently as he could but that angered Lestrade even more.

“You know what! You made a promise!”

“I don’t recall.”

“What?” Lestrade nothing but shouted. This insufferable Mr Oh-Look-At-Me-I-Am-So-Smart. Lestrade took a few deep breath to calm himself. He had to be professional. Someone in this room has to be.

More calmly, he addressed Sherlock once more. “You swore not to make cry any other witnesses like last time and today it was four. I think you broke your record.” Lestrade tried to lighten things a little bit. Sherlock was not really helping.

“Oh, that,” was the only answer.

“Yes, that,” Lestrade gritted between his teeth.

“So, are you going to give me your 27 and half minute long lecture about not doing it ever again or am I free to go?”

Lestrade sank to his chair. “Just get out. I don’t want to see you today.”

Sherlock quickly left the office but not too quickly to avoid certain sergeant of the NSY finest.

“Freak.”  
“Donovan, displeasure as always,” Sherlock sneered.

Of course this was the exact time for Anderson to waltz in.

“What is he doing here?” Anderson whined.

“Solving crimes because this unit is clearly incapable of doing their job properly.”

Suddenly all eyes in the room were directed at him. And not in a nice way.

“Did Lestrade finally saw what a freakish psychopath you are and fired you?”

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I am a high functioning sociopath. Please, do your research as you are as likely to not recognize the dead body from the living one.” And without any more words Sherlock Holmes left the building of the New Scotland Yard.

 _‘What a weirdo,’_ everyone thought.

 

* * *

 

_Next day_

 

For Sherlock Holmes, today wasn’t a great day, not even a good one. Hell, it was much worse. This day so far had been incredibly boring. Boring! B-O-R-I-N-G!

Sherlock was laying on a couch in his pyjamas and was cataloguing different kinds of irregularities on the ceiling. As the time was strongly praying for same murder to come up for him to solve.

Or even his own, to end this suffering.

Somebody knocked on the door. Sherlock didn’t move but he began analysing everything happening.

 **_Light step, small feet, of older age. Walking up the stairs with familiarity, not a client. One step stronger than the other, possibly bad hip. Only possible conclusion –_ ** **Mrs Hudson _._**

She opened the door.

“Good morning Sherlock,” she greeted him cheerfully.

Sherlock didn’t even bothered to come up with an answer to that vast waste of time which was social convention.

Mrs Hudson wasn’t put out by Sherlock inactivity. After all, she was used to his mood swings.

“Today is coming the new potential tenant for a flat share,” she began.

Now that had Sherlock’s attention. He sprung to sitting position.

“What?” He was confused.

“Yesterday I met a very nice gentleman who was looking for a flat. He agreed to come here today to look at it.” She leaned closely and almost conspiratorially she whispered: “He is a doctor.”

Sherlock fell back on a couch.

 _‘The man won’t be staying,’_ he thought. _‘And even if he took the flat it wouldn’t be for long. I have some practise with that.’_

“And it would be welcomed if you hadn’t try to scare the man away, dear,” Mrs Hudson frowned.

_‘I don’t need to try.’_


	3. Meeting At The Baker Street

John was anxiously standing on a pavement before Speedy’s. _‘What will the flat be like? And the flatmate?_ ’ Brain was supplying him with pictures of the dirty small flats not dissimilar of his current one.

Mrs Hudson met him exactly on agreed time.

“Hello Mr Watson.”

“Dr Watson,” he corrected her gently. “Nice to see you again, Mrs Hudson.”

“Dr Watson. Of course! Excuse me. Please, follow me.”

She quickly led him to the door with big bright numbers on it ­­– 221.

While was Dr Watson admiring the cleanliness of the street, Mrs Hudson unlocked the door.

“Come in,” she invited him.

Inside there was discovered a slight problem – the stairs.

Mrs Hudson looked apologetic. “I am sorry, I forgot. Are you able with – your leg?”

“Yes, don’t worry.”

Mrs Hudson relaxed.

“Of course! If you follow me. Take your time.”

And they began ascending the stairs.

“I know how you feel. I have the hip,” Mrs Hudson tried to start the conversation again. At least she wasn’t looking at him with pity.

At that moment, an explosion happened.

Black smoke poured out of under the door of the 221B apartment. Moments later, the tenant appeared through them.

“Sherlock! What happened?” cried Mrs Hudson.

John regarded the other man – Sherlock. He was wearing long white coat, pair of rubber gloves and safety goggles but nothing to cover his nose or mouth. For what he was now intensely coughing.

Man – thirty something with black curly hair. Has interest in chemistry, likely an amateur due to his failure to conduct safe experiment. Further information needed.

John was unaware that the other man analysed him all the same – or deducing more like.

“Excuse me Mrs Hudson. One of my experiment reacted rather violently than I expected.” John’s thoughts had been interrupted by the low voice. Bass? Baritone, more likely.

“This is the new potential tenant, I presume? I’m afraid the apartment isn’t inhabitable right now but if you can wait for ten minutes, I am sure we will be able to breathe in there again.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson scolded.

She turned to Dr Watson.

“I am so sorry again. If you are still interested we can wait in my apartment.”

John just nodded.

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

The ten minutes chat prolonged to half an hour. Over the tea accompanied with biscuits, Mrs Hudson told John everything about her life and life of every other person on the Baker Street, Mr Holmes excluded.

John had been merely listening and asking polite questions but hadn’t revealed anything of an importance about himself.

Finally Mrs Hudson rose from her chair, stretching.

“I think we can visit the apartment safely now.”

Together they arrived again at the door, now without added drama of random explosions.

Flat was complete disarray. Papers and files everywhere, hunting knife stuck in the wall and human skull sitting on a mantelpiece. Not mentioning the cow skull with earphones mounted above the table.

And Mr Holmes had been in the middle of it all, laying on the couch, oblivious to it all.

 _‘He changed his clothes,’_ John noted. And really, Mr Holmes had been wearing his – pyjamas – now.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson called. “Wake up, we have a visitor.”

“Hmph.”

Mrs Hudson whispered: “It’s not polite.”

She stopped trying and asked John:

“There’s another bedroom upstairs if you want to see it.”

“No need. I’ll take it.”

“Really?” Mr Holmes sprung from the couch, now fully alert. He began deducing Dr Watson.

 

**Subject: Dr John Watson**

**_Age: around 35_ **

**_Blond hair_ **

**_Injured leg – at least partly psychosomatic_ **

**_Fashion sense: questionable_ **

**_Profession: doctor_ **

**_Skills: ?_ **

 

Sherlock focused again. This uncertainty wasn’t something he was used to. Nor something he liked.

 

**_Hobby: ? Not certain_ **

**_History: ? Unknown_ **

**_Risk factor: ?_ **

**_Conclusion: Dr John Watson – ???_ **

 

 _‘This is absurd!’_ he thought.

Dr Watson seemed most ordinary but every time Sherlock began to analyse him, something didn’t fit, like he couldn’t be labelled.

“Are you okay?” he heard soft voice and felt hands touching his head.

_‘Oh, it’s Dr Watson. When did he get that close? And why was he asking so many questions? Of course I know what day it is … I must have zoned out. And he immediately started examining me. Typical doctor.’_

“I am fine. I was in my mind palace.” Sherlock said aloud.

“Mind palace?” Watson sounded confused.

_‘And it’s another idiot!’_

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock turned the course of conversation.

“I am sorry?” _‘Still an idiot.’_

“I play the violin and sometimes I don’t talk for days. Would that bother you? Potential flatmate should know the worst about each other.”

“I am a pretty late sleeper. Do you often conduct unsafe experiments in the kitchen?”

“It was completely safe! Just more prominent that it was supposed to be. And don’t look worried – the more dangerous ones I do in the morgue – St Barts. I don’t know if you ever even heard of it!”

Sherlock started to get annoyed. ‘ _Was he wrong? Was this Watson really so dull and boring that he couldn’t see the importance of his research?’_

Watson looked calmly around.

“Well, if you distinguish your laboratory equipment in the kitchen, I don’t see any problem.”

Then he said something unexpected, again.

“I’ll take it.”


	4. Fourth One...

DI Lestrade was desperate. Three suicides, all exactly the same, and no clue why. People started panicking. Press conference had been a fiasco. <Don’t commit suicides> Did he really say that?

Phone at the desk rang. DI Lestrade hesitantly answered.

“DI Lestrade, New Scotland Yard.”

“Sir, there has been another one.” It was Donovan.

Lestrade slumped in his chair and groaned.

“Christ, not again. Press will be all over this.”

“But this is different.”

“How?” Lestrade asked hopefully.

“Victim left a note.” Voice on the other side of the phone was silent for a while, then started talking again. “Sir, you are not going to call the, you know. Because we got this. We don’t need any F –madman jumping around.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lestrade responded absently, not really listening anymore. “Thank you Donovan. Go back to work,” he ended the call.

Now the difficult decision. Oh, who was he kidding! Of course they needed him.

“For God’s sake!” swore Lestrade as he rose from his chair.

 

* * *

 

 

Journey to – Baker Street was it? – wasn’t the exactly short so Lestrade took his car. Otherwise he preferred a long calming walk to London traffic.

But now, time was everything.

Lestrade turned on the police lights and drove to 221B. He took two stairs at once and came in the flat.

“Where?” Sherlock asked.

‘Of course he knows why I am here,’ thought Lestrade.

“Lauriston Gardens,” Lestrade quickly looked around the flat. It was a mess like in the last one and the skull was on its place and –who was it? Someone was sitting in an armchair. Maybe a friend?

_‘But he doesn’t have friends.’_

“What is different?” baritone brought him back to reality.

“The victim left a note.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Thank you.” And with that Lestrade scanned the room one last time. Yep, there was definitely person in the armchair. With a cane. ‘Maybe a client?’ Lestrade was guessing now.

He quickly retreated back to the car.

 

* * *

 

 

Meanwhile Holmes was jumping with excitement.

“Brilliant! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh! It’s Christmas!” he kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek.

Then he quickly grabbed his coat and nothing but ran out of the door.

“I’ll be out late! Don’t wait for me! Watson, have a cup of tea!” was all he was able to shout before he drove away in a cab.

“You have to excuse him. He’s always this joyful about new case. It’s not decent but he can’t help it.” Mrs Hudson tried to begin conversation again. “When do you want to move in?”

“May I do it today?”

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

In the cab, Sherlock didn’t know what to think about his new flatmate.

_‘A walking contradiction. Or more like blank page? Is Watson really that dull or is he so secretive? If yes, then about what?’_

He didn’t figure it out because now it was time for him to solve this delicious piece of case.

Sherlock excited the cab and boldly walked to the crime scene.

“Hello Freak,” familiar voice greeted him.

“Ah, Stg. Donovan. Charming as always.” Sherlock put on his sarcastic tone.

“What are you even doing here?”

“I was invited.” Sherlock ducked under the police tape.

Donovan turned on the radio. “Freak’s here. I’m letting him in.”

Sherlock started walking towards the door, just to be stopped again.

“If you contaminate the crime scene,” Anderson began. He and Donovan were as annoying as a swine flu. You can’t get rid of them.

“I won’t,” he abruptly changed the topic.

“Is your wife away for long?”

“Don’t pretend you deduced it. Somebody told you.”

“Your deodorant told me.”

“My deodorant?”

“It’s for men.”

“Of course it’s for men. I’m wearing it!”

“So is Sergeant Donovan.” Sherlock pretended to sniff the air. “And it seems to evaporate.”

Sherlock finally go to the door and ignoring Anderson’s dull comments. He strode to the room with the victim.

And Lestrade was here.

“Sherlock, five minutes.”

Sherlock silently analysed the room then kneeled beside the body and started examining it.

At that moment his phone rang.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes.”

“Dr Watson.”

Lestrade looked curiously at Sherlock, just as everyone in the room.

_‘Is he seeing a therapist or something?’_

“I’m sorry if I bother you but where do you keep the teabags?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Probably in a box labelled tea.” _‘Is the man stupid?’_

“I have the box and it has a human finger in it.”

“Oh, then the tea is in the bin.”

Watson sighed.

“Very well, sorry to bother you.”

“Wait, you are a doctor.”

“Yes?”

“You can confirm my findings.”

Sherlock started forming an idea in his head.

This will prove if the good doctor is at least useful.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’ll put you on a loud speaker.”

“Sure.”

“Woman – 50 years, working in media, unhappy married for more than ten years, had a number of lovers none of whom knew she was married. Found in an abandoned building seemingly committed suicide. Left a note, RACHE.” Sherlock was firing facts and observations about the woman by the speed of a bullet.

“She was German,” Anderson had spoken up from by the door. Sherlock angrily turned around.

“Rache, German for revenge,” he sounded smug. Sherlock wanted to punch him.

“Yes, thank you for your input.” He shut the door into his face.

“So she was German?” Lestrade asked confused.

“Of course not. It was a name, Rachel.”

“I can’t tell you very much from that. Do you have a picture?” Watson asked.

“Coming right up.” Sherlock took a photo with a flash, momentarily startling Lestrade.

“What do you think?”

“Do you have her phone?”

“No.”

“And her suitcase?”

Now Lestrade answered. “There was no suitcase.”

Sherlock was surprised. “Really?”

Then he focused again on Watson.

“Why are you asking about her suitcase?”

He knew why but wanted to know HOW Watson figured it out.

“She’s obviously not from London. Her coat is still wet but here was no rain in this area today. By the smudges on her leg I think it is small suitcase so she was probably staying here, working. I don’t know where she lives though.”

Sherlock smiled.

“All of the clues suggest that she is from Cardiff. But couldn’t she left her luggage in a hotel?”

“Going of the hotel with her hair like that? I don’t think so.”

“Brilliant. One quick question. Where did you get this number?”

“Oh, from your website.”

Sherlock was now grinning. He ended the call.

“What you’ve got?” Lestrade asked.

“They’re not suicides, they’re murders.” Sherlock looked ecstatic. Started running down the stairs.

“We’ve got the serial killer. I love serial killers! You have to wait until they make a mistake.”

“So now we have to wait?” Lestrade inquired.

“No, end of waiting. Find Rachel! There must be a connection! Houston, we have a mistake!”

“What mistake?” Lestrade shouted.

“PINK!” Sherlock yelled back and then ran again into the dark alleys.


	5. Tea and Mountains

After finishing moving his things to the 221B, just one really light bag, John sat in a chair, fidgeting and unable to be still.

 _‘Probable withdrawal,’_ he tried to change his mind by joking. It was no use. Dr John Watson was in desperate need of a cuppa.

If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad then Muhammad must come to the mountain.

With John it’s exactly the same.

If tea won’t come to John then John has to get up to get some.

After a quick examination of contents of a fridge he decided to make it full shopping trip. Except of two jars of jam, one milk that gone bad and – pair of lungs? – there was nothing.  He hadn’t acknowledged the mouldy sandwich squished down by the Tupperware box containing the said organs.

 _‘Serious health violation.’_ He chuckled.

His new flatmate was going to be an interesting one.

 

* * *

 

 

The suitcase was right where Sherlock had predicted. Dull. After only thirty minutes of searching the closest dumpster he emerged from the pool of garbage holding the said baggage. Hideous piece of luggage. Outrageously pink, it was burning Sherlock retinas. Why someone people liked this shade was behind him.

He quickly hailed a cab and gave the address.

If the cabbie was put out by the smell he hadn’t shown it.

As soon as the cab stopped outside the flat, Sherlock stopped only to throw come cash into cabbie’s face and ran up the stairs, beating his personal record by 0.6 of a second.

He enthusiastically opened the case and began examining it. It wasn’t there! _‘Just as I suspected.’_ Sherlock couldn’t stop a small laughter from escaping from his lips. This was more and more enjoyable. Not only it had confirmed it was a murder ( _‘she was too clever to lost her phone’_ ), it also meant the murderer was smarter than average, at least than average member of the New Scotland Yard.

 _‘With Anderson, that’s not really an achievement, though,’_ Sherlock thought. _‘He has the brain capacity of an ostrich.’_

No, back to work.

Sherlock lied on the couch and started connecting dots.

**Subject: Jennifer Wilson**

**_Object: missing phone_ **

**_Not on her person, not in her luggage, it was nowhere near the body._ **

**_Possible conclusion = The Killer still has the phone_ **

**_Next step = send a message to determine the truthfulness of the drawn conclusion_ **

 

Sherlock snapped out of the trance. Now he needs to find other phone, someone might have recognize his phone number.

“Mrs Hudson!” he shouted. Nothing.

‘She probably hadn’t heard.’ He tried again.

“MRS HUDSON!” Still nothing. Oh well, he’ll have to text John.

Sherlock started typing the message.

Baker Street.

Come at once in convenient.

Only then it occurred to him that he hadn’t have John’s number.

 _‘Stupid.’_ He dropped his head on the couch. _‘I could phone Lestrade.’_ He frowned. _‘He would probably just take the suitcase and banned me from the next crime scene.’_

He fished his phone from under the coach. _‘No use. I’ll have to send it from mine.’_

He began typing again.

What happened at Lauriston Gardens?

I must have blacked out.

22 Northumberland Street, please come.

He hit the sent button. Now it was time to take a break and eat something. Maybe Italian.


	6. Copper Invasion

The quick visit of the shop prolonged to a two hours expedition, partly due to the rude chip and pin machine, due to the poor management in the first two shops. The last shop luckily hadn’t accepted credit cards so John could pay for the groceries in peace and arrived at the Baker Street with three bags of shopping and temporally ban from the two Tesco’s stores.

He shook his head. No fixing that right now. It’s time for the bigger problems, for example how to open the door right now.

It took few tries and dangerous juggling skills to balance all the shopping while holding his cane pressing the doorbell. Luckily Mrs Hudson was in and even helped him to carry everything to the flat.

John put everything on the kitchen table, avoiding the suspicious puddle in the middle. He stored the perishables, all of the pastry, and at last, he fished out the box of tea. Finally the price for his troubles!

John put the kettle on a stove to boil and then he went to take a quick shower.

He was gone for precisely four minutes.

During that time, his flat was invaded.

As he was drying his hair with a towel, John heard the clatter from behind the door.

John put on the clean clothes and silently opened the door. The sound was coming from the living room. He swiftly approached the room, only to find the living room full of police officers.

As every Brit should, it’s an unwritten law, he finished making tea and sit down at the kitchen counter, waiting for this all to explain itself.

No one seemed to notice him.

 

* * *

 

 

There were people in my flat. _‘Why are there people in my flat?’_ Sherlock thought, standing in the hall. Then he heard Anderson’s screeches.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“Mrs Hudson?”

She pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock cursed, opening the door to the flat.

He quickly scanned the room. Seven officers in his line of sight, Lestrade sitting in his chair, and Dr Watson in the kitchen, calmly sipping his tea. No one seemed to even acknowledge the doctor.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock all but interrogated Lestrade.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid.

Sherlock looked away on Dr Watson. His eyes trailed to the ping suitcase sitting before the fireplace. Then Dr Watson met Sherlock’s gaze and slightly lifted left eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged. He turned back to Lestrade.

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?”

Lestrade looked theatrically around. It’s a drugs bust.”

Across the room, Sherlock heard Dr Watson snorted.

That of course, attracted an attention to said doctor.

“Who are you?” Donovan wasn’t exactly rude, but asking those question in the person’s home is always somewhat impolite.

“Mr Holmes isn’t showing any signs of active drug use nor has he displayed any withdrawal symptoms. If you want to raid some guy’s flat, you should probably find better excuse, don’t you think?”

Lestrade inhaled to comment on the issue but Dr Watson cut him off once again.

“Do you have a warrant, I presume?”

Lestrade blinked. “What?”

“Warrant, I am sure you have it right here, otherwise this ‘drugs bust’ is a serious case of restricting personal liberty and could be hold in court against every member in here.”

Lestrade started sweating. ‘Who is this guy? Usually Sherlock just let us to look around, then give us the evidence and then we are all on our merry way.’ He took his head into his hands.

“Dr Watson, I suppose it is your fault, as you let them in this flat,” the deep baritone made Lestrade stare on the man in the kitchen. This was the man Sherlock was talking to at the crime scene. What was he doing here?

“I hadn’t, I was at the shower at the moment.”

“Well, I think we can add a breaking and an entering to the list, Lestrade?”

At this moment, Mrs Hudson stepped into the flat. “Sherlock, dear. Your cab is waiting.” No one reacted to her.

 

* * *

 

 

Lestrade sighed. “So let’s work together. We found Rachel.”

Sherlock turned back to him. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.” Lestrade countered.

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?”

“Never mind that. We found the case.” Anderson being here was like a life hazard to everyone in the flat. “And according to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.” he snapped. He hadn’t seen John slightly shake his head.

Sherlock shifted his gaze back to Lestrade. “You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.”

“She’s dead.”

“Excellent.” That got stares from all around. “How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

Lestrade was now talking like to a small child. “Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.”

Confusion spread on Sherlock’s face. “No, that’s … that’s not right. How … Why would she do that? Why?”

Anderson scoffed. “Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?! Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now.”

“She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt.” Sherlock explained exasperatedly.

“Maybe she wanted to everyone know about her. About here little daughter. Her little daughter that she had lost.” Dr Watson retorted, again startling everyone except Sherlock.

“Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?” The whole room fell silent, everyone again staring at Sherlock. He had his eyes fixed on Dr Watson. “Not good.”

Dr Watson nodded. “Bit not good, yeah.” Then he softly continued. “In cases of miscarriage of stillbirth, postpartum depression is quite common and combined with grief it can be held for years before the pain starts to lessen.” He was explaining it patiently to him, not being upset that he hadn’t known any of this.

“Who we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

Sherlock stepped closer to Dr Watson, now he was standing in the kitchen. But before Sherlock could ask anything else, Dr Watson continued.

“What if it wasn’t just a name?” Dr Watson was now standing.

“What?” Now it was Sherlock turn to be dumbfounded. Dr Watson slipped into the living room.

He was kneeling down next to the luggage. “One of the most common passwords are…”

“…names of pets and children.” Sherlock was catching up. He sat down at the dining table, now looking at his laptop. “Dr Watson, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.”

“Jennie dot ping at mephone dot org dot uk.”

Sherlock visited the Mephone’s website and typed the email address into the ‘User name’ box. “So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address…” He types into the password. “…and all together now, the password it?”

“Rachel.” Dr Watson retorted. He leaned in to look over Holmes’s shoulder. Of course Anderson had to destroy this nice moment.

“So we can read her e-mails. So what?”

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the I. Q. of the whole street.”

Dr Watson turned around. “We can do so much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a …”

“…smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to …”

“…the man who killed her.” They finished together.

‘ _Oh my God, there’s two of them.’_ Lestrade thought. “Unless he got rid of it,” he said aloud.

“We know he didn’t.” Dr Watson added.

“Come on, come on. Quickly!” Sherlock was looking impatiently at the screen.

Mrs Hudson came up again. “Sherlock. This taxi driver …”

“Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?”

“Mr Holmes…” Dr Watson remarked from the laptop.

Sherlock hurried across the room looked over Watson’s shoulder. “What is it? Quickly, where?”

Dr Watson pointed at the map. “It’s here. It’s in two-two-one Baker Street.”

Sherlock straightened up. “How can it be here? How?” Then it hit him. _‘The taxi driver.’_ He looked at Dr Watson, who was nursing the look suggesting that he had the same idea.

Sherlock turned towards the door and calmly headed off down the stairs.

“Sherlock, you okay?” Lestrade sounded worried.

“What? Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine.” Sherlock brushed him off.

“Where are you going?”

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

Lestrade frowned. “You sure you’re all right?

“I’m fine.” Sherlock hurried down the stairs.


	7. Jeff, I Hope?

Sherlock was almost off the door when someone caught him by the sleeve. He turned around. It was Dr Watson.

“You might need help.”

“I can handle this perfectly fine.” Sherlock responded bitterly.

“I don’t doubt that, just let me go with you.”

“Okay.” Only now Sherlock noted that Dr Watson wasn’t using his cane and he basically ran down the stairs just few minutes ago. “I was right.”

“About what?”

“Your leg, psychosomatic.”

Watson laughed. “Sure.” Then he sobered. “Now there are more pressing events on a hand. Just remember, I am not here.” He winked.

Sherlock opened the front door and stood on the doorstep for a moment while he was assessing the man leaning against the side of the cab.

“Taxi for Sherlock ‘olmes.”

Sherlock stepped forward, only faintly hearing the door closing behind him. “I didn’t order a taxi.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

Sherlock looked at him intently. “You’re the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street.” He shut his eyes. “It was you, not your passenger.”

Cabbie smirked. “See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ’ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

“Is this a confession?”

The Cabbie nodded. “Oh, yeah. An’ I’ll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you’re not gonna do that”.

“Am I not?”

“I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ’olmes. I spoke to ’em ... and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing.” The cabbie leaned forward. “I will never tell you what I said.”

Then The Cabbie straightened up and walked to the front door of a cab.

“No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.”

The Cabbie stopped and looked at him.

“An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?”

The Cabbie got in the car and closed the door, waiting for Sherlock to decide. Biting his lips, Sherlock looked up at the flat windows then he peered at The Cabbie through car window.

“If I wanted to understand, what would I do?”

“Let me take you for a ride.”

“So you can kill me too?”

“I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ’olmes. I’m gonna talk to yer ... and then you’re gonna kill yourself.”

Sherlock shrugged and climbed to the cab. Next to him on the back seat was sitting Dr Watson, lightly smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Dr Watson started gesticulating.

First, he pointed at himself. Then, he pointed at the ground and shook his head. **{I am not here.}**

 _‘BSL,’_ Sherlock realized. He shook his left index finger from left to right and then he moved his hands, palms-up, down. **{What now?}**

Dr Watson pointed at Sherlock, curled his hands into fists and together drawn them to his chest. He mimicked to knock once by his right hand. And then he pointed by his left index finger and pretended to catching it by the same hand. **{You keep him occupied.}**

Sherlock just nodded and focused attention on their taxi driver.

“How did you find me?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I recognised yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock ‘olmes! I was warned about you. I’ve been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!”

By the corner of his eye Sherlock saw Dr Watson grimacing. _‘Later,’_ he thought.

“Who warned you about me?”

“Just someone out there who’s noticed you.”

Dr Watson was now leaning forward. Sherlock barely kept himself from looking at what was he doing.

He shook it off. He was to creating diversion. “Who?”

Sherlock leaned forward, studying The Cabbie and noticing the photograph of two children attached to the dashboard of the cab. “Who would notice me?”

The Cabbie regarded him in the rear view mirror. “You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m really not.”

“You’ve got yourself a fan.”

“Tell me more.” Sherlock abetted him.

“That’s all you’re gonna know…” The Cabbie dramatically paused.

“…in this lifetime,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

 

The cab stopped in front of two identical buildings standing side by side. The Cabbie got out, opening the passenger door.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asked. He looked at a seat next to him. Dr Watson was gone. _‘Was he really here?’_

“You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are,” The Cabbie stated.

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?”

The Cabbie shrugged. “It’s open, cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie – you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “And you just walk your victims in? How?”

The Cabbie took a pistol out of a pocket and pointed it at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, dull.”

The Cabbie laughed. “Don’t worry. It gets better.”

“You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

“I don’t. It’s much better than that.” The Cabbie lowered the gun. “Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.” And he confidently walked away into one of the buildings.

Sherlock sat still for a moment. _‘Ugh,’_ he grimaced exasperatedly at himself and got out of the cab, following The Cabbie just as the man said he would.


	8. Behind The School Desk

The Cabbie opened the door and turned on the lights in the room. He stepped aside to let Sherlock go in. Sherlock quickly evaluated the room.

 

**Subject: Roland-Kerr Further Education College**

 

**_Address: Senate Houses, Malet St, London WC1E 7HU_ **

**_Room: one of classroom_ **

**_Rather large room, sufficiently lit_ **

**_The benches are fixed to the ground, free standing plastic chairs_ **

**_Chairs can be used as an improvised weaponry_ **

 

The Cabbie whisked him out of his mind palace. “Well, what do you think?”

Sherlock looked him, half-bored.

“It’s up to you. You’re the one who’s gonna die ‘ere.”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock opposed.

The Cabbie chuckled. “That’s what they all say.” He gestured to one of the benches in the middle of the room. “Shall we talk?”

He immediately pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Sherlock took a chair and sat on the other side of the bench.

_‘He’s sitting behind the bench, in the case of emergency, his legs will be restricted in a small space, whilst mine will be completely free.’_

Sherlock dramatically sighed as he took of his gloves and put them into his pockets.

“Bit risky, wasn’t it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They’re not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.” Sherlock poked.

The Cabbie smiled. “You call that a risk? Nah.” He reached into his pocket. “This is a risk.” He took out a small glass bottle with a single capsule inside.

Sherlock didn’t react in any way.

“Ooh, you are going to love this.”

“Love what?” Sherlock inquired.

The Cabbie sat back. “Sherlock ‘olmes. Look at you! ‘Ere in the flesh. That website of yours, you fan told me about it.”

“My fan?” Sherlock rose an eyebrow.

“You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. ‘The Science of Deduction.’ Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting ‘ere, why can’t people think?” The Cabbie looked down angrily. “Don’t it make you mad? Why can’t people think?”

Now Sherlock realised.

“Oh I see. So you’re a proper genius too,” Sherlock replied sarcastically.

The Cabbie humourlessly laughs. “Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever know.”

Sherlock lied back. “Okay, one bottle. Explain.”

“And this, Mr Holmes, is where you are wrong.” The Cabbie reached into his other pocket and his face showed his surprise. “T–this is not right,” he stuttered. “What have you done?” he looked furiously at Sherlock.

“Done what?” Sherlock was really enjoying himself right now.

The Cabbie started waving with his gun at him. “You wait here!”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Please, as would your faux gun do me any harm. I’ll wait here simply because I want to know how this all will play out,” he ended with a knowing smirk.

The Cabbie stormed off to his cab.


	9. Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

The Cabbie hastily unlocked the cab, got in and started rummaging through his stuff.

 

**Not on the seat. Check.**

**Not in the drawer. Check.**

**Not under the seat. Check.**

**Neither the passenger’s. Check.**

 

The Cabbie straightened himself and reached for the door, going to search the rest of the car, but it was locked. He buffeted with it, it was no use, the door were firmly in place. He momentarily leaned back to his seat, thinking where the evening went this horribly wrong. And it started so wonderfully.

 

**Find Sherlock Holmes’s address. Check.**

**Persuade him to go into the cab. Check.**

**Drive him to the university. Check.**

**Win the game. Well…**

 

The Cabbie couldn’t finish his list. There was suddenly something around his neck, obstructing his airways. A metal string. Not enough for him to choke him, just to make breathing for this moment a little bit less comfortable.

“Now, nice to finally meet you.” the man’s lips were almost touching his ear. “Are you looking for this?” He held his one hand so The Cabbie could see it. It was the other bottle with pill. “Quite clever, I have to admit but you have to work on your rhetoric.

“I am sorry. I don’t think we have been introduced.” The Cabbie would kick himself, would it be possible for him right now. _‘Always have to be smart aleck.’_ “I’m just waiting for a client. It ain’t easy being cabbie right now, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“I know everything, Mr Hope. Your name is Jeff Hope, born on July 30th 1956 in Essex. Your mother’s name was Maria, your father unknown – Sebastian Martins if you were interested. You have two children, daughter Emilia and son Victor, you have estranged with your wife two years ago, Clara. You national identification number is 563-091-197.”

Jeff Hope audibly swallowed.

“Now, Mr Hope, as we established, I know enough about you to make your life a little harder and I’ve heard every word you exchanged with Mr Holmes.”

“How?” Hope struggled to remain calm.

He could heard the smile in the mystery man’s voice. “I’ll think that’s my secret.” He pulled the string a little tighter and it dug into Hope’s skin.

Hope’s composure was officially out of the window. “Who ARE you?!” he shouted. “What do you want?”

“It is not important as who I am, Mr Hope. And for what I want? That is quite easy. I want a name.”

“A name of what?” Hope was on verge of a panic attack.

“The name of your current employer, Mr Hope. I suppose this isn’t just a random murder spree you planned before your medical state will catch up with you.”

“I don’t, I don’t…” The man was pulling the string even tighter. Now Hope actually couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die anyway, at least he could have peaceful death. He gave in.

“Moriarty!” Hope shrieked. He could heard the sirens of approaching police cars.

“Thank you, just remember these names. Margaret Patterson, Sarah Jenkins, Marc Davenport. And Rachel Wilson,” the mystery man whispered into his ear, and suddenly, just as it occurred, he could breathe freely again.

Hope looked quickly behind him. There was no one. He was alone in the car.

Hope tried open the door now. They slid open easily. He shakily got out of the car.

“Don’t move, the New Scotland Yard. Hands where I can see them.” Hope complied. “Now put them behind your head.” Donovan shouted. She cuffed Hope and took him to her police car.

Lestrade was giving out orders to the rest of the lot. “Let’s go find our madman.”

 

* * *

 

 

Why they keep giving him blanket was beyond Sherlock. Why he couldn’t just go home? The case was done. And Lestrade didn’t have to ask load of stupid questions, while was Sherlock seated on the slope of an ambulance.

“And you really hadn’t seen anyone who could threaten our suspect in his own car?”

“No, Lestrade, I hadn’t. Just one question. How did you know we were here?” Sherlock was quite puzzled.

“John texted us the coordinates.” _‘John?’_ “He said he’ll came here to take you home.”

“Quite right, Detective Lestrade.” The voice made surprised Lestrade to turn around. Sherlock could see Dr Watson now. _‘Oh. Dr John Watson.’_

“I think it’ll be best if you could leave your questioning for, let’s say tomorrow, as Mr Holmes is surely in a state he can’t answer any questions right now.” Dr Watson was now using his doctor’s voice, effectively, due to the Lestrade’s reaction.

“Sure,” Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “Tomorrow morning at the station.” Then he promptly walked away.

First, Sherlock took off the blanket and tossed it into the ambulance. Then he headed off the scene rapidly, in case Lestrade changed his mind. Dr Watson was easily keeping up with him, even though he was slightly jogging.

Sherlock lightly slowed down. “How did you do it?” he asked.

“Done what?” Dr Watson didn’t understand.

Sherlock stopped and tried to deduce Dr Watson once more.

He had only one new asset.

**Dr John Watson can move pretty stealthily.**

Not knowing what he should say next, Sherlock began in low voice. “Dinner?”

Dr Watson smiled. “Starving.”

Sherlock smiled all the same. “End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

“Of course you can.”

“I can also always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No you can’t.”

“Almost can.”

“If you think so, Mr Holmes, then sure, why not.”

“Precisely. And please, call me Sherlock.”

“Only if you call me John.”


	10. Doctor in the House

Dr Sarah Sawyer could barely contain her annoyance. Right now, they were under attack by numerous cases of sunburns and heatstroke. People would think that was impossible to in the place like London, with its … flawed weather.

Needless to say, they were running a little short. And she couldn’t find Dr Watson anywhere.

She knew he came on time, the receptionist saw him and even had a quick chat with him. But that was half an hour ago and no one saw him since.

‘That is so unlike him, to avoid work,’ she thought. Sure, he had to excuse himself from work before, as Sarah knew very well from their little adventure with Chinese smugglers, but when he was here, he was usually the first to attend patients.

Sarah told the receptionist to search for John, not that the receptionist would listen, with his eyes glued to the screen of his smartphone.

Dr Sawyer huffed in frustration, and opened the door to the only room no one bothered checking. John’s office.

He was here. She couldn’t believe what she was. John was sitting in the chair, with his back to her and humming something under his breath. When Sarah came closer, he stopped and tried to hide his left arm. Unsuccessfully.

Only then she noticed the bloodied gauze on the desk. And blood was getting more and more prominent on a sleeve of his coat, too.

“What happened?” she asked, as calmly as she could in her current state of mind.

John shook his head. “Nothing serious, just had a bit of run in with a group of thieves,” he offered an explanation. Sarah wanted to believe him.

“Do you need help?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I just, ugh, stich it up and I’ll be right there, okay?” he said with his kind smile which he always used on the more difficult patients. And Sherlock, on multiple occasions.

Sarah just nodded, turning back towards the exit. Only when she was out of the room, a thought occurred to her. ‘John had a lot of injuries lately. This is at least the fourth time in one month.’ She shook her head. ‘It was injury from a case, nothing else.’

However, intrusive thoughts hadn’t stopped coming. ‘But they hadn’t had anything for at least two weeks?’

Sarah was grateful when her pager buzzed to announce another patient.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door of the office closed, John let out a long breath. This was not good. He could see the doubts in her eyes. She was clearly worried about him.

He continued in stitching his arm, musing. Once, he thought about pursuing a relationship between them. ‘But she is too civilian, too skittish.’ She would never be able to accept John as he was, the complicated being he was. He had to show her just this bit, this persona.

John finished and fished out a clean gauze from his desk drawer to bandage it.

He could never reveal himself to anyone. To her, to Sherlock. They couldn’t possibly understand.

John blinked. ‘That went to Sherlock really quickly.’

Over the course of the last six month, John observed that he was more than not concerned by Sherlock’s survival instinct, or more like, the lack of it. John had to make precaution to know about Sherlock’s situation and location at any time. They were just little tracking and listening devices.

John didn’t want to have another situation like the last time.

The gang of, seriously, Chinese antiques-smuggling murderous artists, managed to kidnap Sherlock, trying to ‘persuade’ him to tell them where is the Jade Hairpin.

The Mr Detective-Smart-Alec proved to be quite unhelpful in these regards. If John hadn’t saved him, this pain in the (nevermind) wouldn’t be bothering anyone anymore.

Not that Sherlock knew it was him, he made sure of that. ‘All of the cameras were shot and on the crime scene they found only an unmarked rifle with no fingerprints, accompanied by four bodies and Sherlock. ‘John curled his hands into small fists. ‘Only the General got away.’

Small knock on the door brought John back to the reality. He looked at the clock on the wall, noting he wasted enough time. Then he stood up, fixed his sleeve and went out to help with the more urgent patients.

If someone noticed his sleeve colouration, they wrote it off as another incident with patient.


	11. A Field Trip

John was feeling tired. His usual eight hour shift had prolonged by another eight, then by a day, and now, John was stuck in this hospital for almost 48 hours.

‘I’m not a student anymore,’ he thought as he finished treating his last patient. Sarah finally had a mercy on him and let him go home. John wasn’t complaining. After this he could sleep for a week.

He went to the changing room to take a long shower, he definitely deserved that. As he was striping, he examined the cut on his arm. He hadn’t checked on it since he firstly bandaged it but luckily it wasn’t displaying any symptoms of infection, which was good.

After a quick shower he turned his phone on and check the messages. ‘1895 new messages.’ And they all were from Sherlock. John was impressed.

Most of the messages were commands to John to buy a milk or come to the flat and fetch Sherlock a pen or whatever. Only two were asking:

Where are you? -SH

John didn’t know whether to be touched by Sherlock worrying about him, or amused by his obliviousness to the fact that John had life outside Sherlock.

John on the way home, however, bought a milk. 

 

* * *

 

 

John barely put milk in the fridge when a hand seized his, thankfully the right, shoulder. He turned around, to find Sherlock standing there smiling like a Cheshire cat.

“We have new case,” Sherlock announced promptly. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t know,” John responded uncertainly. “I would rather to go sleep a bit. But you have fun.”

Sherlock looked at him, bewildered. “But JOHN,” he whined. “It’s a new CASE!” It wasn’t exactly a new case, with fresh body and crime scene, but it was as close as it got in the last two weeks.

“And you can’t happily solve it without me.”  
“Nonsense,” Sherlock scoffed, “I would be lost without my Boswell.”

John raised his hands in defeat. “Okay,” he said, hesitantly. “Give me a minute.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock, what am I doing here?”

Sherlock was holding the cab door as John was extracting himself from the vehicle.

John, clutching his cane in one hand, was somewhat successful, and after a while, Sherlock would rather name that an eternity, he got out.

Sherlock threw money in the cabbie’s face and got an unimpressed look in return which quickly turned into pitying, noticing John and his cane.

Why was John still bothering on having that around, Sherlock could not fathom.

But that was not important now, they were here, the New Scotland Yard.

God, how Sherlock hated this place. If it wasn’t for the premise of new and, hopefully, interesting cases, Sherlock would never set his foot in the building.

Not if he could help it.

 

* * *

 

 

As they were going through the lobby and the offices, Sherlock got his usual amount of stares.

**_Hate, hate, annoyance, hate, indifference, morbid fascination._ **

All John got was – nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a single glare darted out of his was to land on the unassuming figure of Dr Watson. It was as he was invisible.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade greeted him like every time Sherlock invaded his office. Annoyed, with slight hint of affection, like to misbehaved child.

He also seemed to ignore John. _‘Fascinating.’_

John sat on the farthest chair in the room, risking that someone could hit him with the door.

Sherlock remained standing.

“What’s the case, then?” Sherlock asked eagerly. “Surely you wouldn’t drag us all the way here for nothing.”

“Us?” Lestrade blinked.

“Yes, John and I.”

“Who is John?” Lestrade’s comprehension was even slower than usual.

Sherlock pointed at John and said really slowly to Lestrade: “John Watson, my flatmate.” Then he turned to John. “Police intelligence nowadays leaves me in tears.”

“It’s not his fault,” John responded. “People just tend to – overlook me. You did so, too.”

Sherlock scoffed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Look, Sherlock, I won’t argue about it with you now. Your mind tends to overlook the minor facts to prove itself right,” John sighed, thinking their exchange was over.

No such luck.

“My brain includes only facts and facts alone! It’s not like your little idiotic minds which are incapable of dividing logic and emotions!” Sherlock was really on fire, today speaking figuratively.

John looked apologetically at Lestrade. “I’ll go for something to drink. Do you want anything?”

Lestrade distractedly shook his head.

John made his limping run and left Lestrade alone to deal with fire-breathing Sherlock.

DI was thinking only one thing. _‘What the hell just happened?!’_


	12. Nap Time

John got out of the office as quickly as he could manage. There was no use talking to Sherlock when he was in this state.

The only thing could do was to find something to shut him up.

John headed towards the kitchen, situated exactly fifteen steps from the entrance, on the right side.

As he was going through the contents of cupboards, the yelling and shouting was getting louder and now he could understand almost every word.

John winced sympathetically. Sherlock was now beginning his long tirade about everyone’s stupidity, with special focus on DI’s figure. _‘Shame they don’t have anything stronger here.’_

He was also trying to find anything to wake himself up, but the only thing that could help right now would be a lake of cold water or decent coffee. Sadly, none of these was in the options.

John’s vision started blurring and his mind became unfocused. He tried doing few jumps to get the blood flow going but the blurring only increased.

He immediately sat on the nearest chair he managed to find.

Its owner wasn’t too happy.

John didn’t mind her yelling too much.

After a moment he wasn’t able to hear anything at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock and Lestrade’s little dispute had been cut short by an urgent knock on the door.

Lestrade forcibly restrained himself not to punch their best consultant yet and opened the door, mentally counting to one hundred.

There were some times he only counted to five.

_‘Those were the days.’_

Behind the door was standing Donovan having her professional look on. At least she thought it was professional. To Lestrade, she looked like a hyena about to get something to bite.

“Boss, there is some strange man lying on the floor.” She shrugged. “Just thought you would want to know that.”

Lestrade followed her to the other room to find out, what the hell is going on, Sherlock in his wake.

John Watson was lying on the floor, next to the chair from which he fell. Lestrade didn’t know the man very well, they were properly introduced just few minutes ago but he didn’t think about John as a person who often took a nap on the floor in public buildings. Just a thought.

As Lestrade was pondering, it occurred to him that he met John three times in total, excluding their conversations over the phone while examining the crime scene. Firstly during the drugs bust, secondly after the arrest of the Jeff Hope, thirdly while inviting Sherlock to the crime scene and lastly, now.

_‘Why did Sherlock brought him here anyway? He never did so before.’_

The named consulting detective was right now trying to wake Dr Watson up.

But as soon as he grabbed his _left_ shoulder, John’s fist collided with Sherlock’s nose.

It didn’t broke, luckily. Or unluckily, it depends on the stance you take.

It was, however, punch strong enough that it let Sherlock fall on the floor, blood dropping from his nose. “What was that for?!”

John was now fully awake. He got up to his feet, momentarily swaying because of the sudden change of the height level.

“Oh, s(never mind), I’m so sorry!” John’s face now looked about two shades paler than usual.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath.

On the other hand, Lestrade looked concernedly at John. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

John smiled at him meekly. “Just an old wound. It still hasn’t healed properly.”

Sherlock looked at him intently. “Wound, what wound?”

“Just a something on my _left_ shoulder.”

“Oh,” Lestrade was beginning to understand. “That’s why you punched him.” He was grinning now.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock scrambled up to his feet, “we are going home.” The blood got on his shirt.

“What?” John turned to Sherlock. “What about the case?”

“There’s no case, he just said that to get me here. It was apparently time for another lecture.”

Sherlock headed towards the exit. He didn’t want to be here any second longer. “Come along, John!”

They both left Lestrade to explain to the other police officers what happened.

Lestrade just wished he knew.


	13. Wakey, Wakey, Tea and Scars

_Next day_

DI with Donovan cautiously climbed up the stairs to the 221 B flat. Not really a new case but Lestrade knew better than to come here without a sacrifice to the angry Mr Braggart. In his left hand he was tightly gripping the three folders of the cold cases.

_‘Twenty years should put up at least some challenge for him.’_

Lestrade knocked on the door. There was an unusual sound coming from the inside. Silence. The only time Lestrade heard this, or rather hadn’t heard anything, was due Sherlock’s absence, or when he ‘went on a trip’.

A sudden worry overwhelmed Lestrade. The door weren’t locked, another sign that something wasn’t right, so courtesy be damned, he had to know whether was Sherlock in any sort of danger or not.

Lestrade strode inside, his hand tentatively hovering over his gun, ready to draw it out at any sign of danger.

And, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, staring into nothing.

Well, he was probably in his mind palace but being like this, he sure looked intoxicated right now. His current state hadn’t reassured Lestrade at all, actually it made him even more suspicious.

“Sherlock?” he tried to snap him out of it.

Sherlock blinked. Good, he’s alive, that is good, right? We don’t want him to die and looking like this forever, now do we? Sherlock’s gaze focused again and his head moved softly as he was taking in his surroundings, determining his current location.

“You know,” Lestrade sighed, “I heard sleeping is much better for your mental capacity than – this,” he vaguely gestured at Sherlock and whatever was going on in that mind of his.

“And don’t catalogue all the useful data? I don’t think so, Lestrade.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Otherwise, my bedroom is currently occupied.”

Lestrade was shocked. _‘What? Who? Why?’_ He grimaced. _‘I mean, why is probably given, but he never show interest in anyone. Maybe except that John bloke.’_ He cleared his throat. “And by who, if I may ask?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “It’s by _whom_ , Lestrade, as you should know.” He sighed. “The usage of English language leaves a lot to be desired. But as an answer to your grammatically incorrect question, my bedroom is currently occupied because John is sleeping here.”

 _‘I knew it.’_ Lestrade tried to play it cool. This felt strangely like giving a teenager some dating advices. Not really comfortable doing so with the thirtysomething police consultant with absolutely none previous displays of desire to do something like this. Not at all.

“And why is he there?” _‘First, you need the facts. It’s dangerous to theorize without all of them.’_

“He went there after we got here from the Yard. Apparently, he can’t stand putting off sleep for larger amount of time. Dull.” Sherlock sounded almost – disappointed? – at his flatmate’s normalcy.

“But you were at Yard yesterday morning. Surely you are exaggerating!”

“You know better than anyone that _I_ never exaggerate. After we came back he announced that he was tired from the clinic and fell asleep in my room. He said that another stairs were top much for him.”

“Wait, a clinic?”

“Yes, John just came back from a forty eight hour shift, I believe.”

Donovan was silent during the whole conversation but now she stepped in. “Wait, are you saying that you don’t understand why people after going over two days without proper rest are sleeping so much?” She snorted. “Surely you can’t be that stupid.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to defend Sherlock, it wasn’t his fault he was lacking in social sphere, but at the same time his phone went off.

Sherlock glowered at Lestrade once more. “Now, look what you did,” he said in dangerously low voice. “You woke him up.”

Indeed, few moments later, the door to Sherlock’s bedroom opened and John stepped out. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt. His hair were a mess, in a nice way, not like he was hit by a lightning, more of the ‘I look good and I don’t care’ image.

But all of that was overshadowed by his scars.

As he traipsed to the kitchen, limping just so slightly and not acknowledging any of them, they got a good look on his back, as well as on his front.

Numerous cuts in varying stages of healing were scattered all over John’s body. His skin over his right knee was heavily scarred.

**_Gunshot wound. The hit severely damaged the knee as whole and most likely the knee had been surgically replaced._ **

_‘Not really psychosomatic, then_ ,’ he thought grudgingly.

That was one thing that draw Sherlock’s eye.

The other was the massive scar on his left shoulder.

Sherlock’s eyes widen. He couldn’t see everything because the undershirt was covering most of the John’s torso but it was enough.

The entry point of the bullet was shaped like a small, uneven star. The scarring was still brightly red like it is with every new wound.

The whole room went silent and John, oblivious to this all, began to make his tea and turn his back to them.

Just to reveal the exiting point.

Donovan drew a sharp breath. Lestrade, nor Sherlock, could be surprised.

If they thought the entry was bad, this definitely proved them wrong. The size was three times bigger to the previous one. The star-like shaped remained, the undershirt revealing only small part of the damage.

John made his tea and went back to Sherlock’s room.

No one knew how could that small man survive so grievous wounds. Or even, how did he gain them.

_‘Needs more data.’_

 

* * *

 

 

As much as Sherlock contradicted, Donovan had some abilities that made her good detective. Keeping secrets, however, was not one of them.

After 72 hours period every man and woman in workforce, both active and long retired, knew about certain doctor and his mysterious wounds.

However, the compassion seemed to be lost on them this time. The betting board in the conference room was a proof of that. Favourites at the moment were ‘abusive parents’ and ‘mugging’.

Lestrade couldn’t believe how anyone could think this acceptable, even though he placed twenty pounds on ‘late night out, drinking’. But only because he wanted to keep it under control, at least that was what he was telling himself.

After only a month a considerable amount of money accumulated in the bank. They only needed to finally determine the winner.

No one dared to do so, though.

Not because the feared Dr Watson, goodness no, that man was giant teddy bear, but because they didn’t want to cause the specific detective spitting venom around. The man was oddly defensive about all things concerning the doctor.

So they were just waiting for someone to work up the very much needed courage.

And Lestrade knew well it won’t be him.

It just won’t.

No, really.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock considered asking John. But, even his massive brain with minimal understanding of social conventions, he knew that it was more than ‘a bit not good’.

And John was quite unwilling to help Sherlock’s prying – how he eloquently put it – into his past.

Past is past, he would say. That it doesn’t matter now.

Except it did. Because it was John’s.

Neither of them suspected that John’s past would get out with a bang.


	14. Ba Dum Tss

The explosion took John by surprise.

At one moment he was tempted to storm out of the flat but that would give that sod a sense of victory.

In the light of the following events, he should probably give that to Sherlock.

As they were arguing about god-knows-what, Sherlock was unknowingly manoeuvring them in front of the windows.

John’s senses were screaming at him, he was turned to the windows by his back.

At that moment, once again at the Baker Street, another explosion happened.

From that moment, John acted on an impulse. He shoved Sherlock to the ground, shielding him from the glass shards and possible metal fragments.

“John,” Sherlock wheezed from under John, “I can’t breathe.”

John scanned the area damaged by the explosion, then nodded and removed himself. Sherlock took a deep breath of the sweet, sweet oxygen. The breathing was only boring when it wasn’t restricted.

Sherlock glanced briefly at John. _‘Who would have thought such a small man would be that heavy?’_

John turned around to closely examine the remains of the two windows and Sherlock’s thoughts about John’s weight were pushed aside, to make place for much more pressing matter.

John was bleeding.

JOHN was bleeding.

John. Was. Bleeding.

“John, you are bleeding.”

“Mph?” Doctor sounded confused, scratching distractedly his neck. Then looking at his hand, he noted a considerable amount of blood that was staining it. “It’s nothing serious,” he shrugged.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue when DI Lestrade burst through the door.

“Are you both okay?” Lestrade’s voice was located few levels higher than usual.

“We are fine,” John responded calmly.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock argued. “You are definitely not.” He turned to Lestrade. “John was shielding me from the shards and is clearly injured.”

“No, I am okay,” It was hard to argue about the ones well-being when the one has his blood slowly dripping on the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

They brought up paramedics to check him, despite John’s protests.

Sherlock was enjoying John’s pouting as he never saw him to do so before. _‘How peculiar.’_

John was sitting on the couch, the only furniture not covered in the glass shards, arguing with one of the paramedics. He was refusing to take off his shirt.

“John,” Sherlock reasoned, HIM of all the people, “the sooner you allow them to do their job, the sooner this all will be over.” He threw his hands in the air, barely missing Lestrade’s face. “What’s the problem?” He once more cursed inwardly at his inability to read John.

“Why am I reluctant to take off my clothes in front of policeman and my flatmate? Gee, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John. That’s my area of expertise.” Sherlock fixed his gaze at John, narrowing his eyes. “If this is about the scars, you don’t have to be ashamed of them. It’s not like we haven’t seen them already.”

Lestrade wanted to smack his socially incompetent head.

John looked perplexed. “My scars? Sherlock, were you sneaking in my room again?”

 _“Again?”_ Lestrade mouthed curiously to Sherlock.

Sherlock waved at him dismissively. “I’ve never sneaked into your room.”

John grinned. “The video evidence might prove the contrary.”

Lestrade gaped at John. “You installed camera in your room?” His brain wasn’t able to process such information.

“No, his brother did.” But then. “Get out, if the medics are going to do their jobs, you will have to be out.”

“But – “ Sherlock wanted to protest. One look from John quickly convinced him about leaving that idea. “Fine,” he grudgingly agreed. “Come along, Lestrade,” he quickly shoved DI out of the flat.

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the house they were greeted by a ––– face of the only one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock groaned at the premise of the upcoming conversation that was about to take place. He scanned his immediate surroundings, hoping to find an escape route. No luck was given that day.

“Now, now, dear brother, no need to evade our little ‘chat’. I merely want to display my concern about your and your flatmate’s wellbeing. I’m looking forward to meet him.”

“Go away Mycroft,” Sherlock growled. “And don’t pretend you already didn’t kidnap him and offered him your money for spying on me.”

“Wait, what?” Lestrade’s comprehension was on a low point that day. _‘He does that to everyone?’_

“Yes, he does,” Sherlock answered Lestrade’s thought. He turned to Mycroft. “And as it seems John refused as well, because he’s still here and breathing, I’m going to warn you one last time. Go Away.” Sherlock shooed Mycroft off. Tried. Unsuccessfully.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows just so slightly, mocking his baby brother. “Sherlock, your deductions are, as always, wrong. I have yet to meet the good doctor.”

Sherlock frowned but said nothing and starred daggers at his brother, Mycroft calmly returning the gaze. Their mind war, because yes, with the Holmes’ brothers it was no less, stretched from seconds to a minute. Two. Five. Seven. And counting.

Lestrade had to admit, that was starting to be scary. And it was already scary when they started with it. “Okay that’s enough,” he stepped between those two, as if they were in the middle of physical battle. They might as well have been on some level.

Both pair of eyes turned towards him. Lestrade immediately regretted him stopping the staring contest. Sherlock’s were saying ‘Can you not?’, whereas Mycroft’s were gleaming with ‘Look at that ignoble peasant’. But that might just be result of spending too much time around certain Consulting Detective.

Lestrade cleared his throat, now feeling very uncomfortable. “I’m going to check on John. You carry on, whatever that was.” He maneuvered himself to the door, not turning back once to confirm they were following him there.

They were. Of course they were.


	15. Meet Mr British Governement

****John was in the kitchen, preparing yet more tea. His now ruined shirt had been replaced by an old worn out T-shirt with s TARDIS on it. Sherlock was more than displeased by it because it meant that he couldn’t closely inspected John’s injury and, to an extent, his whole body.

(Please, try not to think about the subtext in the last sentence.)

Paramedics quickly cleared the field but not without reassuring Sherlock about his flatmate’s health condition. Although, they would usually bring him to hospital for an observation, because of Dr Watson’s occupation and his apparent reluctance to spend night anywhere else than on the Baker Street, they decided, much for the sake of Dr Watson as of their own, to let him rest at home. Under supervision of Mr Holmes, that is.

Sherlock nodded distractedly, only half-listening, rather studying that curious man who was whistling to himself in the kitchen. And giving tea to everyone, apparently.

Other than that John hadn’t given any indication of acknowledgement of them being in the room, rather sitting in his armchair, sipping his tea and reading newspapers, also his.

After few awkward moment Mycroft cleared his throat. “Dr Watson.”

At that, John finally looked up. “Mr Holmes,” he smiled. _‘One of his polite smiles,’_ Sherlock noted, _‘as in the Maybe-If-I-Keep-Smiling-He-Will-Let-Me-Be.’_ As much as Sherlock shared the sentiment, if not the tactic, he was certain that this technique won’t work.

Mycroft’s left cheek ever so slightly twitched. In any other person it was an equivalent of dropped jaw, high eyebrows and shriek of disbelief combined. “I don’t believe we have met,” he started again slowly, trying to claim his ground and establish once more.

Sitting on the sofa, Lestrade was gawking disbelievingly. Never before he had seen the older Holmes so --- nervous. It was unnerving that this small doctor could perturb this man so much.

John blinked lazily at all three of them. “We met few years ago, in a hospital. I suppose you don’t remember much, you were pretty much out of it.”

Mycroft tried to remember the incident, unsuccessfully, which was upsetting him immensely. He inclined his head to the right. “I’m afraid you are right. I can’t recall.”

 

* * *

 

 

_January 2000_

Mycroft had woken up with a massive headache. Blinking, his vision slowly focusing once again, he assessed the interior of the unfamiliar room he was in.

Resting on a hard bed he took in the bare walls of the hospital room. Mycroft tried to get up but sharp pain in his chest resolutely decided against it. He laid down once again, small groan escaping his lips.

As if on cue the door to the room opened. Small man with military cut blond hair stepped in. At the sight of conscious Mycroft, he smiled whole-heartedly.

“Ah, finally you are awake. One or two more days and we would start worrying.” The mid-twenties man, presumably a doctor, remarked.

Mycroft wanted to ask where he was, but it was so obvious it hurt. Instead he asked: “What happened?”

Doctor looked at Mycroft’s card. “Well, you were in a car crash.” He looked on Mycroft soberly. “Someone hid an IED under your car. As it was triggered it exploded, killing your driver, unfortunately,” doctor looked sorry about the last part.

Mycroft mutely nodded. Sumpter was working for him for almost five years now. He was a good employee, it was hard to find someone Mycroft could trust.

He made mental note to himself. ‘Get someone to arrange a funeral.’ Sumpter didn’t have anyone really close to him.

“Thank you doctor,” Mycroft replied.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft roused of his memory of a doctor who could be only The Dr John Watson. As to why he couldn’t place it to the related events baffled him. His mind once again proved him that it wasn’t hundred per cent accurate, as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise.

“I said what do you want?” repeated Sherlock impatiently. “I don’t believe for a second you would go out of your ways just because of sentiment, _brother_ ,” he added rudely.

“Sherlock, be nice,” John chastised him. “Maybe he really wanted to make sure you are alright, ---”

A woman magically appeared at the door, handing Mycroft two manila folders.

“---or not,” Sherlock ended the sentence for him. “I can’t spare the time,” he added looking at Mycroft.

“What?” John looked between them.

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” Mycroft looked at still confused John. “I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent.”

“If you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate it?” sounded the grudging reply.

“No, no, no, no, no. I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so…,” he looked at the expectant faces of his misbehaving brother and his flatmate, only now noting the absence of the DI. “Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this requires --- legwork.”

Mycroft stepped forward, offering one of the folders to Sherlock, who only stared back at him, unmoving. Mycroft sighed, turning to John instead. “Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends.”

 

* * *

 

 

After ten minute briefing, John decided that it was enough and excused himself to go shopping as ‘no one else would do it’.

As soon as he was out of door, Mycroft raised the other folder.

“And, dear brother, seeing as you are being more difficult, perhaps this might lift your spirit.”

Sherlock glared at him. “What is it now, Mycroft? Missing puppy of a prime minister?”

Mycroft looked at his brother with disdain. “No Sherlock, I’m afraid this matter is more serious than that.”

“Oh, you are afraid. This is gonna be good.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, nevertheless he continued. “A high profile agent missing, assumed gone rogue, deserter, the only known alias being ‘The Azrael’.”

Sherlock snatched the folder from him. He frowned studying it. “But there are only three papers,” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded, “these are the only known information about the agent.”

“So, this agent was a soldier in the army for nine years, serving in Afghanistan, Iraq and Africa, and only four of his missions are at least somewhat recorded? You are slipping, brother.”

“He was one of the independents, bound only by monthly reports. Now it’s almost six months.”

“And what keeps you from thinking he’s dead?”

“His reputation.”

“Oh right, because everyone always lives to it. And anyway, why are you giving me his case?” Sherlock tossed the folder at the table.

“There are rumours he’s in London now. And he’s notoriously known for walking on the edge. Sooner or later, there will be crime he will be part of, surely.”

Mycroft stepped to the door, momentarily smiling at his brother, image that would give any lesser man a lifelong nightmare. “Until then, happy hunting brother.” And with that, he and his PA were gone.

Sherlock withstood three minutes and twelve seconds before he grabbed the folder once again.

_‘Interesting indeed.’_

**Author's Note:**

> Are you there, Moriarty? is a name of a parlour game. You can look it up on Wikipedia.


End file.
